Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you think you are ugly.
Years upon years of cultural conditioning once kept you locked in your hive for your own safety, forcing you to acknowledge that the outside world had no desire to suffer the detestable likes of you. Vocabulary and sarcasm and metaphor-laden anger serve as distractions weaving themselves seamlessly into the fabric of your words. You tuck yourself away behind turtlenecks and jeans, behind long sleeves and loose fabric, behind heavy sweaters worn as half-dresses that end just above your knees. Stress of a lifetime paints shadows beneath unevenly pigmented red eyes, a whole row of blunt fangs stick out in overbite, underdeveloped horns sprout from the top of your head as a constant reminder of your flawed status. Your blood, your body, your sympathies: every aspect of you is malformed and irregular and repulsive, you’ve accepted it as fact so set in stone that when he calls you handsome you know at once he is lying.
You are wrapped against him in the darkness of a bottom bunk blanket fort, to the backdrop of an action-adventure sequel you’ve both seen a thousand times. He began kissing you sometime around the moment Liv Tyler graced the scene with her ever-stunning presence, and you wonder if he’s thinking of her when his lips touch yours, and you decide you are okay with that if it makes this process easier for him, but suddenly he’s tucking your hair behind your ear and looking at you and complimenting you and the weight of it forces you to tug away. The glow of the laptop monitor makes the lenses of his glasses shine as the resolution in your denial taints his expression with pity.
He doesn’t return his kiss to your mouth. He pushes it insistently to the side of your nose, repeating in a whisper how handsome he thinks you are. You scrunch up your face and scowl—shrug it off, Vantas, he doesn’t fucking mean it like that—but he’s hugging you with an unfamiliar conviction that makes the curses catch in your throat. He stamps kisses across the flats of your fangs, he nuzzles at the shadows beneath your eyes as if he knows how hard it’s been; his arms are under your shirt, warm and secure around your middle, fingers knitted together at the small of your back in the silent hopes that pulling you in tight enough will convince you of everything you don’t believe. He kisses at the fabric covering your neck and asks is this okay; your heart pounds in anxiousness when you mumble under your breath, nodding into his shoulder. You needed this more than you realized.
You shift while he pulls your shirt up and moves clumsily across your body. He kisses your waist, the slight pudge of skin around your stomach, every discoloured scar he finds, soft mouth and soft laughter charting a complete map of you. He whispers hello to the crook of your elbow, his lips greet every fingertip. He kisses your palm before you cup his cheek. You ask him why he’s doing this. His gaze disarms you.
And he says it.
Your vision grows cloudy. You are drowning with the desire to sink your teeth into him for daring to catch you off-guard, to tear him apart for breaking you down, but all you manage is curling your hands into fists and letting your body tremble. This kind of shit happens in movies, in books, to fair maidens and passionate partners and people who deserve love, not to you.
The tears tell him you’re not as ready as you wish you were; instead, he backs down and embraces you as if you embodied the crack he’s left in your resolve. He pushes his forehead against yours, and you feel loved.
His name is John Egbert, and he thinks you are beautiful.
[audio]May 22nd, 2012 629 notes #boyfriendleaders #john #karkat #johnkat #ficlet #part four